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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29980311">Welcome Back</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/TypingBosmer/pseuds/TypingBosmer'>TypingBosmer</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>You and Your Magister [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dragon Age: Inquisition</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ambiguous/Open Ending, Emotional Porn, First Time, Masturbation, Other, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert, Sex Magic, Smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 17:15:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,237</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29980311</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/TypingBosmer/pseuds/TypingBosmer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Inquisitor, whose perspective is given in the second person to leave room for imagination, comes back to Skyhold after a long journey, and has a rather passionate reunion with an unlikely friend of theirs.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Gereon Alexius/Inquisitor, Gereon Alexius/Original Character(s), Gereon Alexius/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>You and Your Magister [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2205198</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Welcome Back</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
<p></p><div class=""><p>You return to Skyhold from a long and gruelling mission. Your whole body feels like it had been stretched into a strip of dough to make Antivan pasta. Though by now, most of this soreness comes from all the time spent in the saddle, rather than from the injuries that you emerged with when the Venatori, and bandits, and a couple of utterly rabid bears, stopped pummeling at you, and the dust settled.</p></div><div class=""><p>The healers have done a great job on your mangled cuts and greenish-purple swellings: all that remains is an occasional itch where the bandages once were. You scratch at them absently as you disentangle yourself from your stirrups and - finally! - stride from the gates across that home stretch that separates you from your chambers.  </p></div><div class=""><p>Your companions might have a thing or two to say about the discoveries you made on your travels, the choices you settled on - they always do. But you wave them away, absentminded, and soon they fall back, vanishing from your peripheral vision. You will deal with all those discussions, all that approval and disapproval, later. Quite a bit later.</p></div><div class=""><p>For now, your door gets shut; your armour, tossed to the floor; your bath,  filled with bubbles.</p></div><div class=""><p>It is not until you finally part yourself from the bubbles' embrace and settle among the pillows of your oversized bed - clean and refreshed and wrapped in that dressing gown with the Inquisition insignia that Josephine and Vivienne insisted on adding to your wardrobe - that you bring yourself to pen a report to your advisors. Or at least, think about it.</p></div><div class=""><p>You poise the quill, ready to decide what to start with: the Venatori, the bandits, or the bears... When a voice, muffled yet unmistakably urgent, calls out from behind your door,</p></div><div class=""><p>'Inquisitor? Inquisitor!'</p></div><div class=""><p>You shuffle the writing paraphernalia aside, on a bedside table. Well. Now there's certainly a surprise visitor.</p></div><div class=""><p>It's not a companion, or an advisor. Not really. Though he has certainly proven himself useful over these weeks; useful enough that he had his shackles taken away, then his guards, and can now afford to roam around the castle freely. And come knocking on your door, apparently.</p></div></div><div class="">
  <p>'It's not locked!' you call out, not moving from the warm spot you have nestled in.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You should probably throw on something less sheer... But you can't be bothered. Or maybe you refuse to, consciously. Because the sight might just fluster your guest; and a flustered look is a sight as rare as it is oddly... adorable on his aged, worn face. A touch of a blush will do those cheekbones of his some good.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You have, after all, seen it before. At most unexpected moments. You'd think that a former magister, a man who could be quite silver-tongued and audaciously confident if he wanted to, would remain unfazed by a little brush of your hand against his. Or a little teasing smirk. Or a glance over your shoulder that lasted longer than Josephine's books on etiquette would allow.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But your past encounters - when he stopped loathing the world, and you with it - speak to the contrary.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And here he is again, rushing up the small flight of steps and stumbling out into the vast space of your quarters. Gereon, of fallen House Alexius, your adversary, your prisoner, your arcane expert, and now your friend. Not even the most bizarre of your friends, if you think about it. Not the most bizarre-looking person you've encountered, either.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>In the slanting rays of light that link the gleaming stained glass windows with the dappled stone floor, you are once again reminded that the former magister wears his age well. When he is not gawping at you with helplessly widened eyes, that is.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'I... We've been getting letters from the field,' he says, stumbling closer. 'They mentioned you being wounded.'</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You frown, any thoughts of lounging in your glinting gauzy wrappings set aside for now.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'I was a bit battered, yes, but it's all healed now. You needn't - '</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'Needn't worry?'</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Suddenly, there is a shrill pitch in his voice, and the shadows around his ever-bruised eyes and under the angles of his cheekbones seem to deepen.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'The last time when I stayed behind and someone that I... That I...'</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A breathless silence mangles his words, and he stands before you, small and raw and reeling. The last time he stayed behind, he lost his wife. Forever. Despite all his delirious attempts to turn back time.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And now, there is you. His one-time captor and his friend, despite everything. Warm and safe in your bed, back at Skyhold, where he waited all this time. Wondering and fearing. Imagining worse and worse things still, with every day that crawled by with no word of your return.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He is still waiting. Tense. His brown eyes burning. He's been carried here by an impulse - a wish to see you, to make sure you were all right - and now that it has brought him thus far, he is petrified. Trapped by an unspoken longing.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It is you who decides to put it into words. To chart a further course for the tidal stream that has carried him to your doorstep.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'Come here,' you say - and he starts out of his daze. And follows the command, fixated on your face, with a fiery, intent focus. Hungry for every feature.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>When he lowers himself on the edge of your bed, you reach forward, and wrap yourself around him, your lips against his.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He gasps at first, as if in disbelief - and then that gasp melts into a moan, and his breath melts into yours. A mixture of scents: yours, fresh from the fragrant bath, and his, sharp, almost electrified, like a gust of fresh air after a thunderstorm; he has probably been doing some magical experiments recently.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You pull him into your pillow nest, and for a while, you lose yourself in a tangle of limbs, moving, rustling, pressing. When you settle a little bit, sprawled over the covers, your dressing gown lost in crumpled folds somewhere at your waist level, while he finds himself on top of you, straddling your waist, flushed and slightly winded... His expression changes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He is no longer an anxious, worried, longing bundle of nerves and messy feelings. The magister is back, and you can't help but remember that first odd, tight lurch in your stomach that overcame you, quite against your better judgement, when he stepped out of the shadows in Redcliffe.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He is still dressed - overdressed, compared to you. But the clasp on the front of his mage robes has come undone under your impatient fingers, and the low, open cut now reveals a softly shaded collarbone. A line - a promise - that you follow with your eyes, very keenly, until it vanishes under clothing.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His thin lips have stretched into a wicked smirk. One of his wiry, long-fingered hands - so delicate out of the clawed Venatori gauntlets, and still circled in pale scars from his manacles - is resting on your chest, while with the other, he makes a casual twirling gesture, before you hear the lock in your door snap shut.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>At the back of your mind, a chorus of Chantry matrons flaps about like a flock of startled fowl, in a flurry of red and white. You imagine their faces, mostly taken up by enormous shocked mouth circles; and their voices, filled with comical dismay. Warning you about the sinful magicks of Tevinter.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You laugh at your own thoughts, even as heat rises up your throat. He quirks a questioning eyebrow, and as you explain, he laughs too, a silver light dancing in his dark eyes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His fingers move again, flexing. Remembering a motion that he must have thought lost to time, when he was left alone, loveless... Until now.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A purple light sizzles at his fingertips, and the smirk tugs at his mouth again, inches away from your scorched, contracting throat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'They do not know how right they are,' he whispers. 'Would *you* like to know?'</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You barely hear your own 'Yes', choked through a swallow of saliva that does nothing to slake your thirst. Unseen cords tighten expectantly within your body, as though it were a harp, awaiting a musician's touch.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And touch he does. With deliberate, slow care, exploring what he has previously exposed. Every hot, flushed inch of you. The cords sing, as the magic tingles against your skin. Invigorating. Titillating. And the song grows louder the further his fingers dance.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He shifts a little bit away from you, to make room between your spread-out legs. Finally, the hand's thorough journey reaches below your waist, and you cry out in gratitude, your voice filled with the echo of that inner song, your teeth grazing your lips.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He pauses for a moment, taking in your expression, his eyes now narrowed to two very smug honeyed crescents. Then, he focuses his magic on those parts of you that turn the elated song into an incoherent, drunken rasp, which breaks through your parched lips again and again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The magic tickles and spurs you with gentle tiny bites, amplifying the effect of every stroke. Until a powerful charge fills your body, and for a few impossible moments, you seem to soar past the limits of the Veil, straight into the Fade.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>After the shudders of your climax soften into gentle, rolling little waves, and you are able to breathe again, you meet his eyes, and your heart seems to sweep in size as you bask in the light of purest, sincerest affection that shimmers in his gaze.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'Here you are,' you murmurs, conjuring a splash of minty-green light to clean you up. 'Sinful Tevinter magicks, experienced first-hand.'</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'What about second-hand?' you ask impulsively. 'Or... second body?'</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His eyebrows fly up when he gets the hint, and crimson spots bloom on his cheeks. Brighter than when he watched you under his hands.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'An encore then,' he drawls with a smile, leaning in to lock into long, intense kiss. As though he were taking a draught of liquid courage.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>After that, he straightens back up, kneeling in front of you, and begins to undo the rest of his robe.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The years have been kinder to his body than to his face, stamped too deeply by anguish and grief and powerless rage. Still, once the robe is off, it reveals a whole chart of scars, old and new, snaking across his chest and forearms, cutting through the curling dark fuzz of body hair.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'If I took a shot of liquor for every time someone tried to assassinate me,' he comments, catching you watching him, 'I'd be a helpless, undignified drunken mess in your arms.'</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'We should try it some time,' you smirk, and he mirrors the expression, in that tight-lipped, crooked away of his.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His hands, in the meanwhile, set to work. After a few brushes of magic across his chest and along his stomach, which ripple through him in the sweetest shivers - a sight that you savour, the thirst creeping up on you again - he traces a streak of electric glow, and another, and another, along his cock. A rhythm that mesmerizes you, as you feel your nostrils flare.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The magic does not take effect straight away - his age probably slows it down - but it does not fail either. Eventually, the spell overcomes him the same way as it did you. He is hard, and panting, dazed by his own arousal, his eyes half-lidded... Yet still seeking you out.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Pulled to him by his hazy, lustful gaze, you lift yourself from your pillows, and shift into the best pose for him to slip into you, sleek, rushed, carried off by the instinctive rhythm of the rises, the falls, the thrusts, while jumbled words in Tevene roll off his tongue. Perhaps a curse, perhaps a gushing expression of gratitude, perhaps the snatch of a song.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>His magic, like his desire, spills and surges, stronger, brighter. The air around you crackles, filling with that thunderstorm freshness, which condenses into vivid, crisp orbs of lilac glow, which drift downward all around you, like enchanted snow.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'Well, at least I did not set anything on fire,' he points out, drawing a long, satisfied breath. 'Which was a distinct possibility.'</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'And you tell me of that after the fact?' you quip back, smiling to let him know that it's in jest. That you are not truly angry. That the manacles - a necessary measure to restrain the Tevinter maleficar - will not be coming back after this. Probably.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You roll on your back to watch the orbs' slow descent. You feel exhausted again, but in a much more pleasant, languid way.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He nestles beside you, suddenly hesitant, unobtrusive all over again. His air is distinctly apologetic when he finds your hand and brings it to his lips, softly caressing the spot on the inner wrist where the skin is thin, a delicate barrier over your contented heartbeat.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>'I... I still hope that you were entertained by this little diversion,' he says, nigh inaudibly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He is being cautious. Diplomatic. You know that it's not a diversion to him: his panic over the news of your misadventures on the mission made this quite clear.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As for what it was to you... The answer that you give him, catching and holding the gaze of his eyes, filled with so many things unspoken - that is a matter for another time.</p>
</div>
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